


Know my name and all of my hideous mistakes

by SinkingSims



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, Season 4 Spoilers, anyone else like a bit of tragedy in their romance?, dasira is basically just a soulmates au, death mention, more like a bit of romance in the tragedy but whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22839070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinkingSims/pseuds/SinkingSims
Summary: After the first run-in with Julia and Trevor in the archives, Daisy decides to write Basira a letter.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Know my name and all of my hideous mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning in the end notes because spoilers.

Author's note: title taken from my favorite bit of lyrics to [Rejoice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4C_UYJKoALs) by Julien Baker

Author's note 2: This aligns with an roleplay AU I'm a part of, where things after season 4 turn out a little differently than expected. You can learn more about it [here](https://fauxcaultau.carrd.co/): 

Basira,

If you’re reading this, it’s too late for me. It means I got too hungry or too desperate or maybe both. The two seem to go hand in hand, don’t they? Don’t make a face. I know you know what I mean. You’ve seen how I get. You’ve seen the eagerness in my eyes, the outline of my jaw as it burns with the effort of restraint. But you’re no Beholder. There is still so much of me you haven’t seen. I used to attribute it to the wiles transplanted by The Hunt. It’s incredible, the stupid shit you can convince yourself of because it’s more comforting than the alternative. I don’t know if I was overconfident or just a fool. Is there even a difference? I think I can guess your opinion on that one. 

I understand it now. That you didn’t see me for what I was—for what I _am—_ i s due to no special cunning on my part. In fact, the more I sit with this paper in front of me the more I believe you see much more of the truth than I thought. It’s just that you’ve closed your eyes. You’ve looked away. Yes, I know, this is going to piss you off. But I need to write it, and I need you to read it. If it sounds a bit unlike me, it’s Jon’s fault. I asked him to help me get some of the words out, to better explain the finer points. You know I’m no good at this. And what’s a bit of eldritch horror compelling between friends, right? _Don’t_ punish him for this. Please. I told him to give you this letter if something happened to me. I didn’t tell him _why_ , and I think he respectfully tried not to Know. This one is all me. 

Okay, right back to it. I spent a lot of time trying to parse out the root of my idiocy. And I realized something—I don’t think I ever underestimated you. I can’t recall a single moment in our time together where I doubted that you really knew your shit. I still don’t doubt it. I still haven’t met anyone else who can compare. It’s more that I overestimated my own abilities. I used to worry about you transferring to another unit, or leaving the force entirely, because I knew a replacement partner would be just that—a replacement for you, for the real thing. Since I’m doing a whole full disclosure thing here, I guess I can admit I decided years ago that if you flew the coop, I’d end up wherever you landed. Police or not, danger or not. Didn’t matter. 

When you found me that time, right after a kill and moments before another, I felt shame for the first time in years. I was burning with it. I felt like I was the prey, my shoddy attempt at camouflage fruitless against your pointed gaze, boring into my chest as if to confirm a beating human heart even resided there. It shook me. And then I watched you close your eyes and heard you take a deep breath. When you reopened them, I no longer felt those eyes sharp like the tip of a knife pressing feather-light to my chest. And I was relieved. I heard the blood again, felt every pulse. It felt like I had gotten away with murder. Because I had (Sorry, the joke sort of wrote itself).

We never spoke about it. There was ample time to do so between then and the Stranger’s ritual, even more opportunity after I got out of that goddamned coffin and spent days and days just lounging about like a house cat. At first I thought it was because you understood, even sympathized. I actually thought—hey, maybe she’s done something comparably evil, and that’s why she’s sticking around. But no. For all your ruthlessness, all the cold calculations and raw drive I’ve always admired, I don’t think you’ve ever voluntarily sacrificed your human capacity for empathy the way I did for so many years. And I realize, now, that the way things turned out is my fault. The situation we’re in, I did this to us, to you. 

I am your blind spot. 

We were always a great team, a near perfect unit. And you know something? I think I knew what that meant for us. Deep down, I think I _knew_ that even if you did discover what I do and how and to who, you wouldn’t leave. With you, I never had to be accountable. I never had to answer for anything. It was that sort of partnership. I can’t pretend it didn’t feel good, the solid foundation you provided. And then the ground swallowed me and that foundation crumbled, leaving me with nothing but ever-shifting dirt and earth. 

At first I was drowning. But I adjusted. You know when you were on that ship in the middle of the ocean, your stomach churning in time with the waves? Yes, Jon told me about that. I did laugh a little at your expense. I didn’t mean to, it was just so funny to imagine because I’ve never known you to have a weak stomach over anything. But anyways, you adjusted, didn’t you? By the end of it, you could walk about the ship well enough to almost forget you were on one at all. The Buried was like that. It was never pleasant, of course. It was barely even tolerable. But I managed. I learned I could exist without something solid beneath me. 

Without your grace to lean on, though, I couldn’t hold myself up against the weight of my sins. Look, you know I’m not one for gods or cosmic consequence. But down there, I guess you could say I prostrated (Jon’s word) a bit. I doubt there’s much out there more humbling than being buried alive with no way out. But I wasn’t weighing myself against some abstract moral code or some theoretical judgement by an omniscient being. 

I did imagine _some_ kind of judgement scale. On one side there I lay sprawled, heavy, my hands dirtied with the blood of my kills. But on the other side was you, Basira. It was your dark eyes, staring down at me from above. This image lodged itself in my mind with nothing to distract me from it. Nothing to hear; nothing to chase. And I kept wishing you would just close your eyes. I begged to fade away unseen. I was really out of my head by this point. I didn’t know how much time had passed, but I was sure I wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Even with Jon helping to pull the words out, it’s hard to remember what I thought or how I felt with any coherency. But I remember your eyes on me, clear as day. The layers of dirt and grime did nothing to conceal me from them. 

You know, now that I’m writing this part out, I’m realizing it may not actually have _just_ been some wild delusion. Maybe your contract with the Watcher allowed this to happen. I know I said earlier on that you’re no Beholder, but maybe that’s just one more thing I got wrong about you. 

Anyways. Moving on. You have to understand that I didn’t think I was ever getting out of there. So when Jon found me, laid with me, dragged me out of there, I knew something had to change. As the supernatural is real and has touched our lives so deeply, it’s not crazy to think there’s a bit of luck floating around out there too, both good and bad. And stepping out of that coffin, that was some incredible fucking luck. I know you’re going to roll your eyes at this, and that’s fine. It’s good actually. I like it when you question my logic. But despite your strong opinions on fate and destiny and the like, I thought-hey, maybe the universe has another plan for me; maybe this is my second chance. Or maybe it was just you. Maybe when I stumbled out of there, limp and vulnerable in a way I hadn’t been in so many years, it was seeing you staring at me, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, that solidified my choice. 

There have always been two parts to this pact I made with myself. The first part you already know. You’ve seen that struggle yourself, the endless fight against the hunger that threatens to creep up and overtake my senses. Maybe you’re reading this because you watched me fail. But I didn’t only promise resistance. There’s something else, and I intend to keep that promise, if I can—if you’ll help me. I want to face the consequences of my actions if I ever give in, whether by desperate need or by active choice. I _don’t_ want to live untouched by the effects of what I do. Basira, if The Hunt ever consumes me again, I want you to kill me. 

If you’re reading this, it’s because I listened to the blood. I hope it was a last resort to protect you, or Jon, or both, and not some flimsy excuse I made because I missed the thrill of the chase. But I still want to hold myself accountable for my choice. I want to keep my promise. So I need you to find me, and I need you to kill me. I’m worried you’re going to get to this part and tear up the whole page and trash it or burn it. I’m afraid you’re going to want to close your eyes so you don’t have to see how my story ends. But I want you to see me, Basira. I want you to see all of me, the ugly intent and the hideous mistakes. 

How you interpret this letter is ultimately up to you. I know it’s out of my hands. But I want you to have all the facts before you take (or refuse to take) any action. I’m a killer. I have killed many times, and at no point in the process did I feel genuine remorse for any of it. The fact that I feel it now matters very little. Many were monsters, although hardly more so than me. Some weren’t. My first kill felt to me like murdering a monster. It was in the terror he incited in me—the full body shakes of helplessness—and the subsequent rage that covered it up. But I know he was human. I buried him myself.

I’m sorry Basira, for everything. I’m especially sorry for giving you one last moral fucking headache in the form of this letter. But please know that this is, ultimately, one more choice I’ve made. If you take a knife to my throat, it’s because I wanted it, one final mess to drag your boots into before I free you from me for good. There is a string connecting us, one end tied to one of my fingers and the other end tied to one of yours. It’s invisible, but I know you know it’s there. And still you choose not to cut it, time and time again. That’s the kind of person you are. 

You don’t need that connection. You’ll do just fine on your own. I know you, Basira. You will keep pressing forward, even if the future is a thick mass of dark unknowns. It’s how you survived the Stranger. It’s how you’ve survived this long, period. And even without me, you’ll do it again. Kill me, Basira. Kill me, stay strong and don’t look back. 

Remembering us the way we were,

𝓓𝓪𝓲𝓼𝔂

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Daisy asking Basira to kill her. Not sure if that's something that needs to be warned for or not but just in case, there you go.


End file.
